Buckingham Palace Blues

young British sculptress named Henrietta Templeton.

‘Hello, Tommy!’

Dolan wheeled round to see John Carlyle standing at the kerbside, next to a grinning fat bloke who, Dolan guessed, must be his sidekick.

‘Fuck,’ Dolan groaned, taking another puff. ‘What do you want?’

‘We’re here to see your boss,’ Carlyle said, the cheeriness in his voice belied by the hostility evident in his eyes.

‘Huh?’ Dolan took a final drag and flicked the cigarette in the direction of the gutter.

‘Gordon Elstree-Ullick,’ Carlyle said, looking past Dolan towards the throng inside. ‘Also known as the Earl of Falkirk. Twenty-second in line to the British throne, I believe. The guy you’re supposed to be protecting from whatever threat to his person may be lurking among those sculptures tonight.’

Dolan stepped in front of the door. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was still just about able to look down on Carlyle. ‘He’s hardly my boss. And I don’t think he’d want to be disturbed at the moment — not when he’s busy networking. Why don’t you fuck off like a good little boy and I’ll let him know you were wanting a word.’

Carlyle stepped closer. ‘Now, now, Tommy. You don’t want me to have to get Joe here to arrest you. Think of the embarrassment in front of your rich friends.’

A well-preserved woman in a fur coat of some description arrived at the door. Giving them a dirty look, she went inside.

‘Arrest me?’ Dolan snorted, once the door had closed behind her. ‘For what? You’re out of your fucking mind.’

‘For assaulting Alexa Matthews, for a start.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dolan replied. ‘I wouldn’t touch that fat cow with a bargepole.’

‘I’ve seen the mess she’s in.’

Dolan grinned nastily. ‘I think you’ll find she’s the one under investigation.’

Carlyle coughed. ‘Then there’s Dalton.’

‘Joe?’ Dolan’s eyes narrowed. ‘He committed suicide. What’s that got to do with me?’

Carlyle leaned closer. ‘We’re on to you, Tommy. United 14. . the whole works. You’ve been pushing your luck for far too long.’

‘Got a warrant?’

Carlyle said nothing.

‘Thought not.’ Dolan tut-tutted. ‘It’s just the same old snivelling bullshit from you, my friend. Now fuck off.’ He put a hand on Carlyle’s chest and shoved him away from the door. As Carlyle stumbled backwards, Joe Szyszkowski grabbed Dolan by the collar with his right hand and sank a meaty left hook into his stomach.

‘Ooof!’ A look of surprise spread across Dolan’s face, as his legs buckled.

No one inside paid them any notice.

Half-marching, half-dragging Dolan away from the gallery entrance, the sergeant turned to Carlyle. ‘I’ll deal with this guy. You go on inside.’

The temperature inside the gallery was at least ten degrees warmer than out on the street. Carlyle took off his overcoat and waited patiently for the girl on the reception desk to lift her head out of her book. Its title — Bad Art for Bad People — made him smile. Almost.

‘Name?’ With immense effort, the girl looked at him through her red-framed glasses and down her not inconsiderable nose. She was all blonde hair, Mummy’s pearls and studied boredom. There were thousands just like her among London’s well-heeled pretend professionals. He didn’t let it get to him.

‘Carlyle,’ he said politely.

Putting down the book, she slowly scanned a sheet of names in front of her. A small smirk crept on to her lips. ‘I’m sorry, but your name is not on the list.’

Carlyle dropped a card on the desk. ‘That’s because I’m a policeman and I’m here on business. It’s nothing to do with the gallery. I just need to speak to one of your guests. All very discreet.’ He gestured towards the card. ‘That’s for your boss’s information — a courtesy; so that you can let him know that I’m here.’

‘A policeman?’ Ignoring the card, the girl cocked her head to one side, as if she was trying to process this information.

‘Yes. Take this.’ Carlyle handed her his coat. ‘I won’t be long.’ Stepping past the desk, he took a glass of wine from the tray held by a hovering waiter and scanned the main room. The gallery was a reasonable size, maybe 700 square feet, with a smaller room at the back. But, with easily 100-plus people in attendance, the place was very full. Everyone seemed to be chatting away, paying no attention to the art whatsoever, and the inspector’s arrival passed unnoticed. Taking a mouthful of wine, Carlyle began moving slowly through the room, looking out for his man.

A couple of minutes later, he had located Falkirk talking animatedly to two blondes in a corner at the rear of the main gallery. They were standing behind a limestone sculpture called Mindscape that came with a price tag equivalent to almost three-quarters of Carlyle’s annual inspector’s salary. Finishing his wine, he carefully placed the empty glass on the tray of a passing waitress. Pulling his warrant card from his pocket, he stepped toward the trio.

‘Hello?. . Helloo. .’ a voice boomed.

To his right, Carlyle saw a large, middle-aged man in a tweed jacket standing on a small platform raised six inches above the floor. He was holding a microphone which he tapped to see if it was working. The resulting feedback suggested that it was. The beam from an overhead spotlight reflected off his bald head as he stroked his prodigious handlebar moustache nervously. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’

Falkirk and his companions turned to face the speaker. As he did so, Carlyle caught his eye. Falkirk’s face looked puffy; his expression glazed. He was clearly wasted. There was a flicker of recognition before the Earl looked away.

‘As many of you will know, I am Laurence Block, owner of this gallery and host of this evening’s event.’

Jettisoning the two women, Falkirk moved slowly but deliberately through the crowd, getting closer to the stage but also closer to the door.

‘I would just like to say how delighted we are to be hosting this exhibition. .’

Although he was only three or four yards behind Falkirk, Carlyle found it hard to keep up. People were listening to the speech and reluctant to let him through. One woman even kicked him on the shin as he tried to push past her.

‘These works on display in the gallery tell tales of history and place, of isolation and hidden depths. .’

By the time Carlyle reached the corner of the stage, Falkirk had disappeared from view. Had he managed to leave? The crowd was thinner here and the inspector could move more easily towards the door. Stepping outside, he looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Falkirk.

Fuck! Carlyle shivered in the cold, then remembered that he had left his overcoat behind. From inside came a smattering of applause as Block’s speech came to an end, quickly replaced by the buzz of conversations being resumed. Pushing the door back open, he had one foot inside when he heard a voice from behind him.

‘Boss!’

Turning, he saw Joe Szyszkowski frogmarching Falkirk across the road towards him.

‘This is our guy?’ Joe asked.

‘Yes, indeed,’ beamed Carlyle.

‘Good,’ the sergeant grinned. ‘Otherwise we might have been facing a few civil liberties issues.’

Swaying on the tarmac, Falkirk tried his best to glare at the pair of them, saying nothing.

‘What shall I do with him?’ Joe asked.

‘Where’s Dolan?’

Joe gestured to the unmarked Volvo parked twenty yards up the road. ‘In the car.’

‘Okay. Stick this guy in there too and we’ll go back to the station. I’ll just collect my coat.’

Simon Merrett jerked awake as he felt the toe of a boot in the small of his back. It took him a second to realise that he was still chained to the concrete floor of an empty office. His head was thick and there was a sour, metallic taste in his mouth. Before him stood the gangster’s sidekick wearing an outsized Jack Bauer T-shirt, a blank expression on his face. In his right hand, hanging limply by his side, was a small black pistol. Merrett’s eyes